Forgetting the promise he had made to rise and telephone his father early in the morning, Bob Eden lingered on in the pleasant company of his couch. The magnificent desert sunrise, famous wherever books are sold, came and went without the seal of his approval, and a haze of heat spread over the barren world. It was nine o’clock when he awoke from a most satisfactory sleep and sat up in bed.

Staring about the room, he gradually located himself on the map of California. One by one the events of the night before came back to him. First of all the scene at the Oasis⁠—that agile steak eluding him with diabolic cunning⁠—the girl whose charming presence made the dreary café an oasis indeed. The ride over the desert with Will Holley, the bright and cheery living-room of the ranch-house, the foxtrot from a Denver orchestra. Madden, leaning close and breathing hard, demanding the Phillimore pearls. Chan, in his velvet slippers, whispering of psychic fears and dark premonitions. And then the shrill cry of the parrot out of the desert night.

Now, however, the tense troubled feeling with which he had gone to bed was melting away in the yellow sunshine of the morning. The boy began to suspect that he had made rather a fool of himself in listening to the little detective from the Islands. Chan was an Oriental, also a policeman. Such a combination was bound to look at almost any situation with a jaundiced eye. After all, he, Bob Eden, was here as the representative of Meek and Eden, and he must act as he saw fit. Was Chan in charge of this expedition, or was he?

The door opened, and on the threshold stood Ah Kim, in the person of Charlie Chan.

“You come ’long, boss,” said his confederate loudly. “You ac’ lazy bimeby you no catch ’um bleckfast.”

Having said which, Charlie gently closed the door and came in, grimacing as one who felt a keen distaste.

“Silly talk like that hard business for me,” he complained. “Chinese without accustomed dignity is like man without clothes, naked and ashamed. You enjoy long, restful sleep, I think.”

Eden yawned. “Compared to me last night, Rip Van Winkle had insomnia.”

“That’s good. Humbly suggest you tear yourself out of that bed now. The great Madden indulges in nervous fit on living-room rug.”

Eden laughed. “Suffering, is he? Well, we’ll have to stop that.” He tossed aside the covers.

Chan was busy at the curtains. “Favour me by taking a look from windows,” he remarked. “On every side desert stretches off like floor of eternity. Plenty acres of unlimitable sand.”

Bob Eden glanced out. “Yes, it’s the desert, and there’s plenty of it, that’s a fact. But look here⁠—we ought to talk fast while we have the chance. Last night you made a sudden change in our plans.”

“Presuming greatly⁠—yes.”

“Why?”

Chan stared at him. “Why not? You yourself hear parrot scream out of the dark. ‘Murder. Help. Help. Put down gun.’ ”

Eden nodded. “I know. But that probably meant nothing.”

Charlie Chan shrugged. “You understand parrot does not invent talk. Merely repeats what others have remarked.”

“Of course,” Eden agreed. “And Tony was no doubt repeating something he heard in Australia, or on a boat. I happen to know that all Madden said of the bird’s past was the truth. And I may as well tell you, Charlie, that, looking at things in the bright light of the morning, I feel we acted rather foolishly last night. I’m going to give those pearls to Madden before breakfast.”

Chan was silent for a moment. “If I might presume again, I would speak a few hearty words in praise of patience. Youth, pardon me, is too hot around the head. Take my advice, please, and wait.”

“Wait. Wait for what?”

“Wait until I have snatched more conversation out of Tony. Tony very smart bird⁠—he speaks Chinese. I am not so smart⁠—but so do I.”

“And what do you think Tony would tell you?”

“Tony might reveal just what is wrong on this ranch,” suggested Chan.

“I don’t believe anything’s wrong,” objected Eden.

Chan shook his head. “Not very happy position for me,” he said, “that I must argue with bright boy like you are.”

“But listen, Charlie,” Eden protested. “I promised to call my father this morning. And Madden isn’t an easy man to handle.”

“Hoomalimali,” responded Chan.

“No doubt you’re right,” Eden said. “But I don’t understand Chinese.”

“You have made natural error,” Chan answered. “Pardon me while I correct you. That are not Chinese. It are Hawaiian talk. Well known in Islands⁠—hoomalimali⁠—make Madden feel good by a little harmless deception. As my cousin Willie Chan, captain of All Chinese baseball team, translate, with his vulgarity, kid him along.”

“Easier said than done,” replied Eden.

“But you are clever boy. You could perfect it. Just a few hours, while I have talk with the smart Tony.”

Eden considered. Paula Wendell was coming out this morning. Too bad to rush off without seeing her again. “Tell you what I’ll do,” he said. “I’ll wait until two o’clock. But when the clock strikes two, if nothing has happened in the interval, we hand over those pearls. Is that understood?”

“Maybe,” nodded Chan.

“You mean maybe, it’s understood?”

“Not precisely. I mean maybe we hand over pearls.” Eden looked into the stubborn eyes of the Chinese, and felt rather helpless. “However,” Chan added, “accept my glowing thanks. You are pretty good. Now proceed toward the miserable breakfast I have prepared.”

“Tell Madden I’ll be there very soon.”

Chan grimaced. “With your kind permission, I will alter that message slightly, losing the word very. In memory of old times, there remains little I would not do for Miss Sally. My life, perhaps⁠—but by the bones of my honourable ancestors, I will not say ‘velly.’ ” He went out.

On his perch in the patio, opposite Eden’s window, Tony was busy with his own breakfast. The boy saw Chan approach the bird, and pause. “Hoo la ma,” cried the detective.

Tony looked up, and cocked his head on one side. “Hoo la ma,” he replied, in a shrill, harsh voice.

Chan went nearer, and began to talk rapidly in Chinese. Now and then he paused, and the bird replied amazingly with some phrase out of Chan’s speech. It was, Bob Eden reflected, as good as a show.

Suddenly from the door on the other side of the patio the man Thorn emerged. His pale face was clouded with anger.

“Here,” he cried loudly. “What the devil are you doing?”

“Solly, boss,” said the Chinese. “Tony nice litta fellah. Maybe I take ’um to cookhouse.”

“You keep away from him,” Thorn ordered. “Get me⁠—keep away from that bird.”

Chan shuffled off. For a long moment Thorn stood staring after him, anger and apprehension mingled in his look. As Bob Eden turned away he was deep in thought. Was there something in Chan’s attitude, after all?

He hurried into the bath, which lay between his room and the vacant bedroom beyond. When he finally joined Madden he thought he perceived the afterglow of that nervous fit still on the millionaire’s face.

“I’m sorry to be late,” he apologized. “But this desert air⁠—”

“I know,” said Madden. “It’s all right⁠—we haven’t lost any time. I’ve already put in that call for your father.”

“Good idea,” replied the boy, without any enthusiasm. “Called his office, I suppose?”

“Naturally.”

Suddenly Eden remembered. This was Saturday morning, and, unless it was raining in San Francisco, Alexander Eden was by now well on his way to the golf-links at Burlingame. There he would remain until late tonight at least⁠—perhaps over Sunday. Oh, for a bright day in the North!

Thorn came in, sedate and solemn in his blue serge suit, and looked with hungry eyes toward the table standing before the fire. They sat down to the breakfast prepared by the new servant, Ah Kim. A good breakfast it was, for Charlie Chan had not forgotten his early training in the Phillimore household. As it progressed, Madden mellowed a bit.

“I hope you weren’t alarmed last night by Tony’s screeching,” he said presently.

“Well⁠—for a minute,” admitted Eden. “Of course, as soon as I found out the source of the racket I felt better.”

Madden nodded. “Tony’s a colourless little beast, but he’s had a scarlet past,” he remarked.

“Like some of the rest of us,” Eden suggested.

Madden looked at him keenly. “The bird was given me by a sea-captain in the Australian trade. I brought him here to be company for my caretaker, Louie Wong.”

“I thought your boy’s name was Ah Kim,” said Eden innocently.

“Oh⁠—this one. This isn’t Wong. Louie was called suddenly to San Francisco the other day. This Ah Kim just happened to drift in most opportunely yesterday. He’s merely a stopgap until Louie comes back.”

“You’re lucky,” Eden remarked. “Such good cooks as Ah Kim are rare.”

“Oh, he’ll do,” Madden admitted. “When I come West to stay I bring a staff with me. This is a rather unexpected visit.”

“Your real headquarters out here are in Pasadena, I believe?” Eden inquired.

“Yes⁠—I’ve got a house there, on Orange Grove Avenue. I just keep this place for an occasional weekend⁠—when my asthma threatens. And it’s good to get away from the mob, now and then.” The millionaire pushed back from the table, and looked at his watch. “Ought to hear from San Francisco any minute now,” he added hopefully.

Eden glanced toward the telephone in a far corner. “Did you put the call in for my father, or just for the office?” he asked.

“Just for the office,” Madden replied. “I figured that if he was out we could leave a message.”

Thorn came forward. “Chief, how about that interview for Holley?” he inquired.

“Oh, the devil!” Madden said. “Why did I let myself in for that?”

“I could bring the typewriter in here,” began the secretary.

“No⁠—we’ll go to your room. Mr. Eden, if the telephone rings, please answer it.”

The two went out. Ah Kim arrived on noiseless feet to clear away the breakfast. Eden lighted a cigarette, and dropped into a chair before the fire, which the blazing sun outside made rather superfluous.

Twenty minutes later the telephone rang. Eden leaped to it, but before he reached the table where it stood, Madden was at his side. He had hoped to be alone for this ordeal, and sighed wearily. At the other end of the wire he was relieved to hear the cool, melodious voice of his father’s well-chosen secretary.

“Hello,” he said. “This is Bob Eden, at Madden’s ranch down on the desert. And how are you this bright and shining morning?”

“What makes you think it’s a bright and shining morning up here?” asked the girl.

Eden’s heart sank. “Don’t tell me it isn’t. I’d be brokenhearted.”

“Why?”

“Why! Because, while you’re beautiful at any time, I like to think of you with the sunlight on your hair⁠—”

Madden laid a heavy hand on his shoulder. “What the blazes do you think you’re doing⁠—making a date with a chorus girl? Get down to business.”

“Excuse it, please,” said Eden. “Miss Chase, is my father there?”

“No. This is Saturday, you know. Golf.”

“Oh, yes⁠—of course. Then it is a nice day. Well, tell him to call me here if he comes in. Eldorado seven six.”

“Where is he?” demanded Madden eagerly.

“Out playing golf,” the boy answered.

“Where? What links?”

Bob sighed. “I suppose he’s at Burlingame,” he said over the wire.

Then⁠—oh, excellent young woman, thought the boy⁠—the secretary answered: “Not today. He went with some friends to another links. He didn’t say which.”

“Thank you so much,” Eden said. “Just leave the message on his desk, please.” He rang off.

“Too bad,” he remarked cheerfully. “Gone off to play golf somewhere, and nobody knows where.”

Madden swore. “The old simpleton. Why doesn’t he attend to his business⁠—”

“Look here, Mr. Madden⁠—” Eden began.

“Golf, golf, golf,” stormed Madden. “It’s ruined more good men than whisky. I tell you, if I’d fooled round on golf-links I wouldn’t be where I am today. If your father had any sense⁠—”

“I’ve heard about enough,” said Eden, rising.

Madden’s manner changed suddenly. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But this is annoying, you must admit. I wanted that necklace to start today.”

“The day’s young,” Eden reminded him. “It may get off yet.”

“I hope so,” Madden frowned. “I’m not accustomed to this sort of dillydallying, I can tell you that.”

His great head was tossing angrily as he went out. Bob Eden looked after him, thoughtfully. Madden, master of many millions, was putting what seemed an undue emphasis on a little pearl necklace. The boy wondered. His father was getting on in years⁠—he was far from the New York markets. Had he made some glaring mistake in setting a value on that necklace? Was it, perhaps, worth a great deal more than he had asked, and was Madden fuming to get hold of it before the jeweller learned his error and perhaps called off the deal? Of course, Alexander Eden had given his word, but, even so, Madden might fear some hitch in the transaction.

The boy strolled idly out into the patio. The chill night wind had vanished, and he saw the desert of song and story baking under a relentless sun. In the sandy little yard of the ranch-house life was humming along. Plump chickens and haughty turkeys strutted behind wire enclosures. He paused for a moment to stare with interest at a bed of strawberries, red and tempting. Up above, on the bare branches of the cottonwoods, he saw unmistakable buds, mute promise of a grateful shade not far away.

Odd how things lived and grew here in this desolate country. He took a turn about the grounds. In one corner was a great reservoir half filled with water⁠—a pleasant sight that must be on an August afternoon. Coming back to the patio, he stopped to speak to Tony, who was sitting rather dejectedly on his perch.

“Hoo la ma,” he said.

Tony perked up. “Sung kai yat bo,” he remarked.

“Yes, and a great pity, too,” replied Eden facetiously.

“Gee fung low hop,” added Tony, somewhat feebly.

“Perhaps, but I heard different,” said Eden, and moved on. He wondered what Chan was doing. Evidently the detective thought it best to obey Thorn’s command that he keep away from the bird. This was not surprising, for the windows of the secretary’s room looked out on Tony’s perch.

Back in the living-room, Eden took up a book. At a few minutes before twelve he heard the asthmatic cough of Horace Greeley in the yard, and, rising, he admitted Will Holley. The editor was smiling and alert.

“Hello,” Eden said. “Madden’s in there with Thorn, getting out the interview. Sit down.” He came close. “And please remember that I haven’t brought these pearls. My business with Madden is still unfinished.”

Holley looked at him with sudden interest. “I get you. But I thought last night that everything was lovely. Do you mean⁠—”

“Tell you later,” interrupted Eden. “I may be in town this afternoon.” He spoke in a louder tone. “I’m glad you came along. I was finding the desert a bit flat when you flivvered in.”

Holley smiled. “Cheer up. I’ve got something for you. A veritable storehouse of wit and wisdom.” He handed over a paper. “This week’s issue of the Eldorado Times, damp from the presses. Read about Louie Wong’s big trip to San Francisco. All the news to fit the print.”

Eden took the proffered paper⁠—eight small pages of mingled news and advertisements. He sank into a chair. “Well,” he said, “it seems that the Ladies’ Aid Supper last Tuesday night was notably successful. Not only that, but the ladies responsible for the affair laboured assiduously and deserve much credit.”

“Yes, but the real excitement’s inside,” remarked Holley. “On page three. There you’ll learn that coyotes are getting pretty bad in the valley. A number of people are putting out traps.”

“Under those circumstances,” Eden said, “how fortunate that Henry Grattan is caring for Mr. Dickey’s chickens during the latter’s absence in Los Angeles.”

Holley rose, and stared for a moment down at his tiny newspaper. “And once I worked with Mitchell on the New York Sun,” he misquoted sadly. “Don’t let Harry Fladgate see that, will you? When Harry knew me I was a newspaper man.” He moved off across the room. “By the way, has Madden shown you his collection of firearms?”

Bob Eden rose, and followed. “Why no⁠—he hasn’t.”

“It’s rather interesting. But dusty⁠—say, I guess Louie was afraid to touch them. Nearly every one of these guns has a history. See⁠—there’s a typewritten card above each one. ‘Presented to P. J. Madden by Till Taylor’⁠—Taylor was one of the best sheriffs Oregon ever had. And here⁠—look at this one⁠—it’s a beauty. Given to Madden by Bill Tilghman. That gun, my boy, saw action on Front Street in the old Dodge City days.”

“What’s the one with all the notches?” Eden asked.

“Used to belong to Billy the Kid,” said Holley. “Ask them about Billy over in New Mexico. And here’s one Bat Masterson used to tote. But the star of the collection”⁠—Holley’s eyes ran over the wall⁠—“the beauty of the lot⁠—” He turned to Eden. “It isn’t there,” he said.

“There’s a gun missing?” inquired Eden slowly.

“Seems to be. One of the first Colts made⁠—a forty-five⁠—it was presented to Madden by Bill Hart, who’s staged a lot of pictures round here.” He pointed to an open space on the wall. “There’s where it used to be,” he added, and was moving away.

Eden caught his coat sleeve. “Wait a minute,” he said in a low, tense voice. “Let me get this. A gun missing. And the card’s gone, too. You can see where the tacks held it in place.”

“Well, what’s all the excitement⁠—” began Holley, surprised.

Eden ran his finger over the wall. “There’s no dust where that card should be. What does that mean? That Bill Hart’s gun has been removed within the last few days.”

“My boy,” said Holley. “What are you talking about?”

“Hush,” warned Eden. The door opened and Madden, followed by Thorn, entered the room. For a moment the millionaire stood regarding them intently.

“Good morning, Mr. Holley,” he said. “I’ve got your interview here. You’re wiring it to New York, you say?”

“Yes. I’ve queried my friend there about it this morning. I know he’ll want it.”

“Well, it’s nothing startling. I hope you’ll mention in the course of it where you got it. That will help to soothe the feelings of the boys I’ve turned down so often in New York. And you won’t change what I’ve said?”

“Not a comma,” smiled Holley. “I must hurry back to town now. Thank you again, Mr. Madden.”

“That’s all right,” said Madden. “Glad to help you out.”

Eden followed Holley to the yard. Out of earshot of the house, the editor stopped.

“You seemed a little het up about that gun. What’s doing?”

“Oh, nothing, I suppose,” said Eden. “On the other hand⁠—”

“What?”

“Well, Holley, it strikes me that something queer may have happened lately on this ranch.”

Holley stared. “It doesn’t sound possible. However, don’t keep me in suspense.”

“I’ve got to. It’s a long story, and Madden mustn’t see us getting too chummy. I’ll come in this afternoon, as I promised.”

Holley climbed into his car. “All right,” he said. “I can wait, I guess. See you later, then.”

Eden was sorry to watch Horace Greeley stagger down the dusty road. Somehow the newspaper man brought a warm, human atmosphere to the ranch, an atmosphere that was needed there. But a moment later he was sorry no longer, for a little speck of brown in the distance became a smart roadster, and at its wheel he saw the girl of the Oasis, Paula Wendell.

He held open the gate, and with a cheery wave of her hand the girl drove past him into the yard.

“Hello,” he said as she alighted. “I was beginning to fear you weren’t coming.”

“I overslept,” she explained. “Always do in this desert country. Have you noticed the air? People who are in a position to know tell me it’s like wine.”

“Had a merry breakfast, I suppose?”

“I certainly did. At the Oasis.”

“You poor child. That coffee.”

“I didn’t mind. Will Holley says that Madden’s here.”

“Madden? That’s right⁠—you do want to see Madden, don’t you? Well, come along inside.”

Thorn was alone in the living-room. He regarded the girl with a fishy eye. Not many men could have managed that, but Thorn was different.

“Thorn,” said Eden. “Here’s a young woman who wants to see Mr. Madden.”

“I have a letter from him,” the girl explained, “offering me the use of the ranch to take some pictures. You may remember⁠—I was here Wednesday night.”

“I remember,” said Thorn sourly. “And I regret very much that Mr. Madden cannot see you. He also asks me to say that unfortunately he must withdraw the permission he gave you in his letter.”

“I’ll accept that word from no one but Mr. Madden himself,” returned the girl, and a steely light flamed suddenly in her eyes.

“I repeat⁠—he will not see you,” persisted Thorn.

The girl sat down. “Tell Mr. Madden his ranch is charming,” she said. “Tell him I am seated in a chair in his living-room and that I shall certainly continue to sit here until he comes and speaks to me himself.”

Thorn hesitated a moment, glaring angrily. Then he went out.

“I say⁠—you’re all right,” Eden laughed.

“I aim to be,” the girl answered, “and I’ve been on my own too long to take any nonsense from a mere secretary.”

Madden blustered in. “What is all this⁠—”

“Mr. Madden,” the girl said, rising and smiling with amazing sweetness, “I was sure you’d see me. I have here a letter you wrote me from San Francisco. You recall it, of course.”

Madden took the letter and glanced at it. “Yes, yes⁠—of course. I’m very sorry, Miss Wendell, but since I wrote that certain matters have come up⁠—I have a business deal on⁠—” He glanced at Eden. “In short, it would be most inconvenient for me to have the ranch overrun with picture people at this time. I can’t tell you how I regret it.”

The girl’s smile vanished. “Very well,” she said, “but it means a black mark against me with the company. The people I work for don’t accept excuses⁠—only results. I have told them everything was arranged.”

“Well, you were a little premature, weren’t you?”

“I don’t see why. I had the word of P. J. Madden. I believed⁠—foolishly, perhaps⁠—the old rumour that the word of Madden was never broken.”

The millionaire looked decidedly uncomfortable. “Well⁠—I⁠—er⁠—of course I never break my word. When did you want to bring your people here?”

“It’s all arranged for Monday,” said the girl.

“Out of the question,” replied Madden. “But if you could postpone it a few days⁠—say, until Thursday.” Once more he looked at Eden. “Our business should be settled by Thursday,” he added.

“Unquestionably,” agreed Eden, glad to help.

“Very well,” said Madden. He looked at the girl, and his eyes were kindly. He was no Thorn. “Make it Thursday, and the place is yours. I may not be here then myself, but I’ll leave word to that effect.”

“Mr. Madden, you’re a dear,” she told him. “I knew I could rely on you.”

With a disgusted look at his employer’s back, Thorn went out.

“You bet you can,” said Madden, smiling pleasantly. He was melting fast. “And the record of P. J. Madden is intact. His word is as good as his bond⁠—isn’t that so?”

“If anyone doubts it let him ask me,” replied the girl.

“It’s nearly lunchtime,” Madden said. “You’ll stay?”

“Well⁠—I⁠—really, Mr. Madden⁠—”

“Of course she’ll stay,” Bob Eden broke in. “She’s eating at a place in Eldorado called the Oasis, and if she doesn’t stay, then she’s just gone and lost her mind.”

The girl laughed. “You’re all so good to me,” she said.

“Why not?” inquired Madden. “Then it’s settled. We need someone like you around to brighten things up. Ah Kim,” he added, as the Chinese entered, “another place for lunch. In about ten minutes, Miss Wendell.”

He went out. The girl looked at Bob Eden. “Well, that’s that. I knew it would be all right, if only he would see me.”

“Naturally,” said Eden. “Everything in this world would be all right, if every man in it could only see you.”

“Sounds like a compliment,” she smiled.

“Meant to be,” replied the boy. “But what makes it sound so cumbersome? I must brush up on my social chatter.”

“Oh⁠—then it was only chatter?”

“Please⁠—don’t look too closely at what I say. I may tell you I’ve got a lot on my mind just now. I’m trying to be a business man, and it’s some strain.”

“Then you’re not a real business man?”

“Not a real anything. Just sort of drifting. You know, you made me think last night.”

“I’m proud of that.”

“Now⁠—don’t spoof me. I got to thinking⁠—here you are, earning your living⁠—luxurious pot roasts at the Oasis and all that⁠—while I’m just Father’s little boy. I shouldn’t be surprised if you inspired me to turn over a new leaf.”

“Then I shan’t have lived in vain.” She nodded toward the far side of the room. “What in the world is the meaning of that arsenal?”

“Oh⁠—that’s gentle old Madden’s collection of firearms. A hobby of his. Come on over and I’ll teach you to call each one by name.”

Presently Madden and Thorn returned, and Ah Kim served a perfect lunch. At the table Thorn said nothing, but his employer, under the spell of the girl’s bright eyes, talked volubly and well. As they finished coffee Bob Eden suddenly awoke to the fact that the big clock near the patio windows marked the hour as five minutes of two. At two o’clock! There was that arrangement with Chan regarding two o’clock. What were they to do? The impassive face of the Oriental as he served lunch had told the boy nothing.

Madden was in the midst of a long story about his early struggle toward wealth, when the Chinese came suddenly into the room. He stood there, and, though he did not speak, his manner halted the millionaire as effectively as a pistol-shot.

“Well, well, what is it?” Madden demanded.

“Death,” said Ah Kim solemnly in his high-pitched voice. “Death unevitable end. No wolly. No solly.”

“What in Sam Hill are you talking about?” Madden inquired. Thorn’s pale green eyes were bulging.

“Poah litta Tony,” went on Ah Kim.

“What about Tony?”

“Poah litta Tony enjoy happly noo yeah in Hadesland,” finished Ah Kim.

Madden was instantly on his feet, and led the way to the patio. On the stone floor beneath his perch lay the lifeless body of the Chinese parrot.

The millionaire stooped and picked up the bird. “Why⁠—poor old Tony,” he said. “He’s gone west. He’s dead.”

Eden’s eyes were on Thorn. For the first time since he met that gentleman he thought he detected the ghost of a smile on the secretary’s pale face.

“Well, Tony was old,” continued Madden. “A very old boy. And as Ah Kim says, death is inevitable⁠—” He stopped, and looked keenly at the expressionless face of the Chinese. “I’ve been expecting this,” he added. “Tony hasn’t seemed very well of late. Here, Ah Kim”⁠—he handed over all that was mortal of Tony⁠—“you take and bury him somewhere.”

“I take ’um,” said Ah Kim, and did so.

In the big living-room the clock struck twice, loud and clear. Ah Kim, in the person of Charlie Chan, was moving slowly away, the bird in his arms. He was muttering glibly in Chinese. Suddenly he looked back over his shoulder.

“Hoomalimali,” he said clearly.

Bob Eden remembered his Hawaiian.